Yo, Homie! Motivate Me!!!
Motivation, what exactly in the name of Horus is it, anyway?
Why it’s just the golden gossamer sprinkles of fairies’ dust on the delicate edge of angels’ wings.
Or is it?
The question for the average pragmatic Jane or Joe remains: “where to find it, how to get it and keep it?” I need it handy, always at the ready when the fancy strikes me. I want to keep my motivational lucky charm in my pocket, along with my keys. I want to keep it close, to feel the warmth, sure that it is there, safe and secure, always.
Ah well, mi companero,He has to because it’s a worm eat worm jungle out there and any wise man wandering about needs his wits about him and a penchant for maximizing opportunity aggrandizement if he wants his goose to remain uncooked.
It’s daunting. Absolutely daunting, when you consider just how many millions of points out there on the internet supply influential advice on this particular topic, ranging from Tony Robbins to Oprah & Co.
So, here it is. My paltry $0.02 contribution, tossed irresponsibly into the humungous and still growing bank balance of confusion:
I started working out at home, a little two-bedroom apartment in Santa Monica off of Ocean Ave. with something called awhen I was 16 or 17 years old. I was just this scrawny, ugly, spotty kid in very bad shape, the proverbial 98 lb. weakling living with his mom. I bought it off of the local QVC FITNESS TV channel for $20. A lot back then, in fact, all I had.
I began to train randomly, cluelessly, stubbornly, slowly, desperately trying to learn how to be healthy and strong. I trained ceaselessly as if my life depended on it…as it most certainly did.
Yes, it’s really kind of funny how things turn out. Now at 60, living in the UK, still training, still pushing, still assuming the best stuff isn’t behind me, I have done it this way, pretty much non-stop for the last 40 years or so…You know, Old dogs & all that malarky. Oh, yes I run afor a living. I’ve been doing this for the last 30 years or so. I have no plans for retiring anytime soon. Although to be totally honest, I am not quite sure that I’ve ever had a real job, whatever that might be. Ok, so enough of ancient histories.
Most of us believe (or hope, or pray) that motivation is like a bus that schedules its stops right outside our houses, happily beeping its horn while patiently waiting around until we get it together enough to saunter on out, as the pleasantly smiling driver politely holds that bus door open for us, just because we’re special.
Not in my experience. No, not the way it works at all in this life, as far as I know. Let’s be a little cocky today and say that Motivation is more like a pit-bull chasing down a postman. The postman is scared out of his wits, we think it’s the dog, but it may be something else. That poor bastard postman, with his silly hat on backward, all-hell-bent-for-leather, madly pedaling away as fast as he can go on his rickety old bike. You can just see it, can’t you?
Lest it grows dull and worn, motivation is the allegorical blade that one is obliged to keep sharp, day after day after day. It is an ephemeral and temperamental weapon, only useful in proportion to the ability of the one who wields it to ensure it’s shininess, brightness and sharpness.
Question: ‘Sup, man. So, just how are you supposed to keep this all-mighty blade so nice, so sharp, so shiny, holmes?
Well readers, an answer to that one, but one that by no means is likely to satisfy or attract many likes (and probably even fewer loves), is this:
It depends on what you have at hand. Perhaps it’s a rock, a bootstrap, another piece of metal, a diamond, your shirt sleeve, the bark of a tree.
Or perhaps it’s the thought of the respect of a potential loved one, the painful memory of the bully whose idea of a good time was a boot in your face, or simply blind ambition
…or maybe it’s a Bullworker. Just this cheap, cheesy thing bought in the throes of insomnia off a late-night TV channel when you were 17, a long, long time ago.